


Dressing the Canvas in Secrets

by winternacht



Series: Artist AU [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Exhibitionism, M/M, Mental Link, Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 13:09:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20967077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winternacht/pseuds/winternacht
Summary: Jon's job as a nude model at an art class takes an unforeseen turn when Elias joins the group.





	Dressing the Canvas in Secrets

The first time Jon had taken a job as a nude model for an art class, he had been nervous, unsure of what to expect. The thought of strangers staring at him for an hour had not been appealing in the least. But for all his trepidation, he had ended up being rather pleased with how clinical and professional the process had been after all. No different from getting undressed at the doctor’s office, except for the pleasantly studious atmosphere around him, the sound of pencils scratching over canvasses.

So when he’d received a call a week later, asking him to attend another session, he’d gladly accepted. With time, it had become something of a hobby. Whenever his schedule permitted it – and it was much more permissive between semesters – he posed in front of a group of artists at the nearby community centre. The pay was decent, but it wasn’t what kept him coming back.

He’d taken a keen interest to watching the people who drew him. Most of them were middle-aged, though some strayed from the pattern. There was a couple that usually sat close to the door and exchanged feedback in hushed voices. There was a younger woman who he may have seen on campus once or twice, who usually got up half-way through the class to get some coffee from the vending machine outside. A man who scribbled so furiously he had to sharpen his pencil multiple times. Other faces came and went, and they slipped his mind easily enough.

* * *

The room had gotten stuffy that summer afternoon, and while the lack of clothing certainly gave Jon an edge over the artists surrounding him, discomfort started to settle in after just a few minutes of holding his pose – one leg stretched out to his side, the other curled close towards his torso, his back arched, face towards the ceiling. It wasn’t a position that allowed him to observe the others as much he usually liked to, but he didn’t mind. It was more comfortable, for once, to keep his eyes closed.

He could have dozed off like that, lulled into a daze by the heat in the room and the quiet noise of whirring fans and pencil lead on canvas, the strain in his arms already ebbing away, but there was something just at the edge of his perception, too far out of reach to name, that kept his thoughts from falling silent. And when he cracked an eye open and peered to his side, he saw him.

He must have been around forty, though perhaps it was the posh clothes and hairstyle that made him look older. Not to mention out of place. He studied Jon intently, unmoving, and Jon wondered if he was even drawing at all. He must have been, because the instructor gave him an approving nod as she walked past. Perhaps he was simply focusing before drawing, as if every single line mattered.

Jon decided to ignore him and tried to simply close his eyes again, lose himself in his thoughts. But it was impossible. Whenever he peered to his side, the man was observing him again. Sometimes, Jon could see his elbow move, but even then, his eyes never left him, fixated, and Jon could feel the sweat beading on his forehead under the intensity of his gaze.

There was nothing malicious about it, nothing reproachful or salacious. But Jon could still feel it as intensely as a physical touch. Caressing his cheek, a thumb wiping away the sweat at his temple. Fingers trailing down his exposed throat, towards his shoulder, assessing the strain in his arms.

Jon’s breathing grew laboured. The air around him must have got stuffier, thick with moisture and dust. Like trying to breathe through mud, restricted in his movements not by masses of earth piling onto him but by his own choice.

When the touch of his gaze wandered between his legs, Jon had to bite his lip to keep quiet. More tender even than a touch of hands, soft lips seemed to envelop his cock, a hot tongue trailing across hardening flesh, and Jon’s arms trembled.

He squeezed his eyes firmly shut, relieved to find it broke the odd spell. His heart slowly calmed, and with it the pulsing heat between his thighs. It was normal, he tried to tell himself. He’d read it could happen while posing nude, and that nobody paid it any mind. Though now he found himself doubting the latter part. He must have seen.

When Jon opened his eyes at the end of the class, the man had already left. It should have been a relief. But instead, Jon found himself regretting that he hadn’t opened his eyes again sooner.

* * *

Jon had considered stopping. But when Linda called him to confirm the next appointment, he ended up agreeing. Maybe the man wouldn’t be there. He’d only come once, as far as Jon knew. Maybe it had just been the heat. It must have been.

* * *

The man was back. From the corner of his eye, Jon watched him enter the room, sitting down to Jon’s side. At least this time, Jon’s pose felt safer. He was sat on a chair, bent forward, leaning into the cross of his arms, his head tucked to the side. Maybe, if the man had arrived later, he would have chosen the other side. But perhaps then he would have changed seats. In any case, Jon found himself facing the man again.

He tried to find some comfort in the fact that his pose was so utterly closed off. Safe and secure in his own embrace. Instead, whenever his eyes met the man’s, he felt exposed to his core, all his vulnerabilities on display. And the man took them all in, confiding them to his canvas in broad strokes. Jon hugged himself tighter, digging his fingers into his sides, shivering. But this time, he did not look away.

“Would you like to take a break, Jon?”

Linda’s voice broke his concentration, and he sat up suddenly, wincing at the protest of his limbs. When he blinked, he noticed a tear that had caught in his lashes. He quickly brushed it away.

“I don’t,” he said, clearing his throat. “But… thank you.”

“You just seem a little cold,” she said. “I didn’t think it would be necessary, but if you would like me to turn up the heat-“

“No, it’s alright,” Jon insisted. Faintly embarrassed to be causing a fuss. “Let’s continue.”

Linda nodded. “But let me know if you do need a break.”

Jon assumed his pose again, but to his disappointment, the man had already disappeared, leaving Jon with nothing to do but stare at the empty seat. His sketch book was propped up on the easel, forgotten.

Jon had to keep himself from jumping up and getting it. His limbs grew tense with impatience. He forced himself to stillness, tried not to focus on the time ticking by, but when the class ended, he threw on his robe and took a look.

The man had only drawn his eyes, capturing something in them that Jon had never seen on any photo of himself. Had shied away from when he’d seen it in the mirror. Jon shivered, pulling the robe tighter around himself.

In the corner, there was a signature in a neat script, elegant but forgoing any flourishes. Elias Bouchard. Jon couldn’t help reaching out out to run his fingers over the paper, to feel the grooves the pencil had left. As if only that would make what he was seeing real. It was then that he noticed the bumps in the paper. He lifted the corner. On the other side, a phone number had been pencilled

* * *

“You needn’t have troubled yourself with that,” Elias said as Jon returned the sketch book to him.

“You certainly expected me to.”

Elias let out a quiet chuckle. “Certainly. More than I simply wanted you to, or hoped you would. Which, incidentally, is the case as well.”

“There’s hardly a difference,” Jon said, if only because he regretted the word choice and bristled at the idea of going around, fulfilling a stranger’s baseless expectations in him. And because he wanted to desperately ignore the part of him that was quite pleased with that turn of events indeed.

He took a sip of his tea, a well-needed break in the conversation. The blend Elias had recommended was quite pleasant.

After giving it some thought, Jon had called him just two days ago. Elias, as he’d suggested Jon call him, had asked him to keep it until the next session, but Jon had insisted, intrigued as to why an art collector with a gallery in London would randomly attend drawing classes in a community centre in Oxford. The café had been Elias’ idea, however.

“Why did you… want me to contact you?”

“I would like to draw you,” Elias said smoothly. “A private session in my atelier.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Jon said and hid behind his teacup again. He had no desire to end up with his heart in a glass jar. But there was a lingering curiosity that kept him from dismissing the idea entirely.

“Of course, you don’t have to decide immediately. I’d be happy to attend a few more classes at the centre instead. Unless you’d prefer I didn’t?”

Jon gave a thoughtful hum. Perhaps that would be for the best. To let Elias draw him every week, take him piece by piece. Until one week he’d be gone, leaving Jon raw and open for everyone to behold. His heart thumped oddly at the idea. Would he know Elias better at the end of their time together, as well? Or would Jon have to hold back with his observations, unable to commit himself fully for fear of causing disruption. Missing out on an opportunity, he felt, he would never have again.

“If I agree to the private session,” Jon began tentatively, setting down his cup, “would it be the same as the last two sessions?”

“In what way?” Elias asked lightly. As if he hadn’t felt it, too. And for a moment, Jon was almost afraid he hadn’t, that it had been all a fantasy he’d built up in his head in a heat-induced daze. But that couldn’t be. He knew about the power certain books carried. So why not a canvas as well?

“You know what I mean,” Jon said sharply.

“That depends on you.” Infuriatingly unhelpful, but Jon had to admit he was probably right. The connection was potent but fragile. Simply snapped by him closing his eyes. “But there’s perhaps something you should know – as a rule, I only draw every subject in full just once.”

“Why?”

Elias smiled, took a sip of his coffee. Drawing out the tension in a way that made Jon scowl at him, even if that seemed to amuse him as well.

“You’ll see.”

* * *

“Jon? Are you ready?”

Jon’s fingers toyed nervously with the belt of the soft robe Elias had prepared for him. He’d done this dozens of times already. In front of complete strangers, in front of people he knew by sight. He’d done it in front of Elias, as well. But in the privacy of his flat, it felt all the more exposing. Jon still had time to change his mind. He could put on his clothes again and leave, just as impulsively as he had decided to show up at Elias’ doorstep.

Jon took a deep breath and stepped into the atelier. It was so austere, the wide windows that stretched across the entire outer wall further adding to emptiness, that when he’d first seen it, he almost doubted it was actually where Elias painted. Until he’d seen the art supplies covering the shelves on the wall, concealed behind a pair of sliding doors.

For himself, Elias had set up an easel in front a low chair. For Jon, however, he’d prepared a round leather seat, large enough that it almost looked like a pedestal to him. He brushed his hand across the supple material, trying to calm his nerves.

“What pose did you have in mind?” he asked. He hardly dared look up, afraid that he would simply unravel before they had even started.

Footsteps fell across the floor, calm and measured. Elias came to a halt so close to him that even fixated on the seat as Jon was, he could see his polished shoes in his peripheral vision, the slacks Elias was wearing. It made him feel self-conscious again, just like he’d felt when Elias had greeted him at the door, dressed in an elegant suit. Though he’d abandoned the suit jacket by the time they’d gone upstairs. But it was hardly equal to the layers he’d asked Jon to shed.

“Just like the first time we met, I think.”

Jon nodded hesitantly. It had been weeks, but he still remembered the pose exactly.

He opened the robe and hung it over a chair behind him, shivering despite the comfortable temperature. He sat down perpendicular to Elias, drawing up the leg closer to him before he realised his mistake. Instead, he curled his other leg towards his chest. Leaving himself utterly exposed to Elias.

“Very good,” he commented, voice neutral except for the pleased undertone that trickled down Jon’s spine like warm summer rain. Emboldened, Jon leaned back, bracing himself with his arms. The light of day bathed the room in a pleasant glow. Such a difference to the fluorescent lights at the centre that made it uncomfortable to look at the ceiling for a longer time.

“Look at me, Jon.”

Jon tilted his head to the side, just slightly. Just enough to meet Elias’ eyes, and Jon’s breathing hitched in response.

“Better,” Elias said. “But I think some adjustments are required.”

He retrieved a pair of gloves from his supply box and approached Jon, who remained in the position he was in, not moving a muscle, only following Elias with his eyes.

“May I?” Elias asked, putting a hand on Jon’s shoulder, applying no pressure at all, just letting Jon feel the coolness of the silk glove.

Jon drew in a deep breath, trying to keep his chest from moving overly much. “Yes.”

Elias gently pushed a hand at the space between Jon’s shoulder blades, coaxing him to arch his back a little more, displaying his chest more prominently. Supporting him as he reached for Jon’s wrist with his other hand and pulled it back slightly, allowing Jon some measure of stability.

Stability that nearly collapsed when Elias put a hand on Jon’s thigh, tension thrumming through every fibre of his body, coiling tighter with every breath he took. Elias’ finger curled against his inner thigh as he pulled it towards the side, spreading Jon’s legs just a little wider. His knuckles brushed against Jon’s soft cock with the moment, coaxing a quiet sigh out of him. It seemed to echo through the silence around them.

Jon’s face was hot beneath the glove when Elias tipped his chin to the side, far enough that Jon could rest his head on his shoulder. And even then, Elias directed him to tilt his head back just a little further, until the tendons in his neck strained, taut, and Elias let his fingers slide across them like a violinist eliciting a string harmonic, drawing a quiet whimper from Jon.

“Can you hold this position, Jon?” He eased the supporting pressure against Jon’s back until his hand simply hovered beneath him, ready to catch him if necessary.

“Yes,” Jon gasped, barely able to vocalise in this position.

“Lovely,” he simply replied, and Jon closed his eyes to memorise the sound of his voice, opening them again when he heard Elias take his seat.

Time stood still between them as Elias simply took him in, his eyes raking slowly across Jon’s body as Jon followed their movement curiously. The silk gloves had come off, a layer between them removed.

Then Elias began to draw. Tender caresses across the canvas as he focused on Jon’s face, like fingers brushing across his lips, and Jon parted them willingly for Elias, panting quietly. A series of rough strokes followed, like hands twisting in his hair, a sudden tension that made him groan.

Elias’ gaze wandered across his body, and Jon felt every single line he drew like a firm touch against his skin, goose bumps pricking in its wake. He parted his legs further for Elias, his body wrecked by shudders as he grew hard beneath his eyes. Jon moaned as his cock twitched against his thigh, his eyes falling shut on their own volition, but he kept forcing them open, unwilling to break that connection again.

Even as he felt pre-come drip onto his thighs, he didn’t look down, didn’t move a muscle beyond the restless twitching of his limbs he couldn’t help, arousal threading through his entire body. It began to hurt. It hurt not to touch himself when his body clamoured for release. It hurt to hold the tension in his muscles, his tendons, as they yearned for rest. Bliss was just a touch away, and Jon moaned for Elias to grant it to him, even as the pleasure turned to pain, the heat around him to biting cold, his awareness of his surroundings sinking beneath a haze of thoughts, a swirl of memories.

And it was that messy tangle of humanity that he could feel Elias reach into, draw from him, and commit to his canvas, hands moving while his gaze on Jon never wavered. And what choice did Jon have, then, but to return it? To look at him and into him, well-guarded emotions and intentions shining through in what Elias scrutinised – the fear of the Spider, the dread of ignorance – and what he cherished in his art – the deep, aching desire to see and be seen in turn, twining like ribbons around each other into a taut band that drew them together.

One last stroke of the pencil, one last caress to Jon’s aching cock, and the world around him fell away as he lost himself in Elias’ eyes.

At last, Elias stood, and Jon’s arms gave out, sending him sprawling atop the cold leather. He shivered, struggling to do much more than curl up, hiss at the ache in his limbs. Trying to wrap his mind around what had happened.

A creak of leather, and Elias was sitting next to him, covering him with the robe. It was pure instinct that had Jon reaching out towards him, the desire to cling to the warmth of another body. But it was his decision to pillow his head in Elias’ lap, to allow him to curl his fingers into his hair. To close his eyes and rest as Elias soothed him with gentle praise.

* * *

“What do you think, Jon?”

Jon’s cheeks heated as he inspected the drawing, feeling Elias’ eyes on him even with his back turned. “At least you actually the drew the rest of me this time.” But in truth, he didn’t know what to think, his mind too occupied with fending off the melancholy that threatened to set in when he recalled that this meant that their work together was done.

But there was something that dispelled these feelings, something about the image that caught his attention. He tried to remember if he had seen it in the previous artwork – that hunger in his eyes for something he couldn’t name. It fascinated him. It opened up a hollow inside him that ached to know more.

“You can hardly blame me for having preferences.” He kissed Jon’s temple, lips brushing against the lashes at the corner of Jon’s eye. A featherlight touch that was gone again the next moment, and Jon pressed himself against Elias’ chest in response. “But perhaps there are parts of you I should pay more attention to.

Jon’s heart skipped a beat. “Does this mean-“

“Yes, Jon,” Elias murmured into his hair, warm and quiet. “I’d like to draw you again.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Dressing the Canvas in Secrets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21223976) by [Kess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kess/pseuds/Kess)


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